


I'm the One You'll Miss the Least

by tinytveit



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Blood, Depression, Depressive Thoughts, Gen, Graphic Description of Self-Harm, Self Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 01:40:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1369228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinytveit/pseuds/tinytveit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is drowning, he can't win, and he needs a way out. Any way out.</p>
<p>No matter what the cost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm the One You'll Miss the Least

**Author's Note:**

> This has SERIOUS trigger warnings for self-harm, suicide, blood, and depressive thoughts. PLEASE DO NOT READ if you think you'll be triggered. And if you are, you can always come talk to me at tiny-tveit.tumblr.com. If you suffer from any of these problems and ever need to talk, let me know.

His heart speeds up the moment he leaves the bathroom outside his art history lecture hall. Grantaire opens his bag as he ducks into a corner of the hall, making sure no one sees him before he can enter the arena fully armed. He digs into the recesses of his bag, expecting to find his ragged green hoody. The front pocket of his bag is conspicuously empty. Dumping the entire contents of his back on the ground, he searches frantically among the littered papers and crumped art fliers and loose art supplies. It’s … just not there. His body freezes up as he remembers that he is wearing a t-shirt. Of course he fucking is, it’s April. It’s damn hot out there. But he can’t go in there like this. He can’t. But he can’t miss another class.   
  
Swallowing down an overwhelming sense of fear and anxiety, Grantaire packs his bag, refusing to look up through his black hair falling in his face at the students now passing by, giving him curious looks. When the contents are all contained, he shoulders his bag and crosses his arms tightly. He can’t believe he’s this stupid. Someone is going to notice. Someone is going to say something.

Luckily, the warm air means many students are not encouraged to come to class and there are plenty of seats for him to take, on his own. Grantaire picks a spot in the very back row, right by the aisle. He needs to make sure no one sees him and he can make a quick exit.   
  
No one sits next to him. The 75 minutes of the art lecture crawls by, he barely manages to sketch facades of Byzantine architecture he’ll have to try to memorize and ultimately fail to know later. He just wants to go home.     
  
As the class dismisses, he grabs his bag with urgency and is at the door when he is stopped dead. From the front of the lecture hall, the call rises: “Monsieur Grantaire, can I speak with you, please?” _Shit._ Shoving his hands in his pockets, holding his arms painfully against his arm, he descends to meet his professor.   
  
“M. Grantaire, I was wondering if you could step into my office for a moment?”  
  
He raises his eyebrows above his muddy green eyes, not trusting himself to talk, merely humming inquisitively.   
  
“I would like, to,” She clears her throat, the anxiety of her student rubbing off on her, “about your midterm test, if you don’t mind.”  
  
He nods, and follows her prompting to her office on the upper floor.   
  
Not sure how to hold himself, he sits down much like he did in the classroom, his thick legs sprawled out in front of him with his arms folded tightly against his chest. While the professor’s back is turned, he unconsciously tugs at the nonexistent sleeves of his missing hoodie. He doesn’t even listen to her concerns. He’s heard them all before. Grantaire has potential, but he doesn’t apply himself; he needs to come to class more often and participate more with his classmates and faculty in his department; they are just worried about him and want him to do better; if he simply tried harder, he could easily excel.   
  
They don’t understand. They really don’t fucking understand. He tries. He puts everything he physically can into his classes. Some days … it’s just harder. And something just isn’t working. He’s a failure. He’s been in college for 6 fucking years and he still isn’t any closer to getting out. He can’t fucking do it. It’s just something I have to deal with.   
  
As the meeting continues his midterm test is pulled out, all but painted in red to emphasize his mistakes he already knows he made. She grabs it and holds it out to him. Awkward moments pass as Grantaire refuses to move his arms, already knowing intimately what the mistakes of his testing has cost him. He had no desire to let that secret out to any one else.   
  
“Please, I would like to talk about your essay on page 3.” The test is brandished again, and he really can’t hold it off. Maybe she won’t notice.   
  
Grantaire extends his right arm to grab the paper, leaning forward in the chair. The squeak made by the old furniture cannot be heard over her small gasp. He rips the paper from her hand and shoves his arms back to their previous position.   
  
The attention of the art professor is gone from the midterm. He wishes this was not the case. She stands from her position behind the desk and moves cautiously around to face herself next to her student. Her old face, something a classmate once told Grantaire reminded them of a mother, has a look of a mother now. He wants to rip is face off and never look at her again.   
  
As she kneels down and tries to grab his arm, Grantaire moves to avoid her grasp. Setting a hand on his knee, she says, “Monsieur, do you need help? I can get you help.”  
  
Still turned away from her, he unfolds his arms and scratches at some of the many cuts, varying in length and depth along the inside of his arm from his wrist to his elbow. A few break open, bleeding lightly, and he rubs frantically to remove but only smears it and makes the scene look worse. “I’m fine.”  
  
“Monsieur, not only do I think you need to talk to someone about this, but I need to know what the cause of this was. You need to tell me.”  
  
He does not answer. He knows what the cause of each and every scar is, of which there are many. They aren’t just on his arms, this time they are because it was worse this time. He will not tell her. He won’t.   
  
“Is this because of anything at school? The midterm exam?”  
  
Grantaire releases a choked sob. This wouldn’t have happened if he weren’t so stupid enough to forget a damn sweatshirt, like he wears every other day. He’s an idiot. That’s all the answer she needs.   
  
“Please, you need to tell people about problems like this. This could have been fixable.” She rises again moves back behind her desk, checking things on the computer in silence. “As of right now, given your current situation, it seems as if you are having similar problems in other classes. I don’t … I don’t know if this is the right thing for you to do right now. Do you understand?”  
  
Without looking up, Grantaire speaks. “You want me to drop out. Quit.” It’s not a question.   
  
“Monsieur, I don’t like to encourage such things but … based on what little information I know about you with this current situation, I do not think that school is a healthy environment. Please, tell me if I’m being too forward, but you need more help than school can give you and –“  
  
Grantaire abruptly stands up, exposing his bloody and scar-laced arms and grabs his bag. “You are being too forward. I’ll be leaving. Uh … bye.” He turns, leaves, and leaves the door open behind him.   
  
The world is soundless, colorless, odorless around him as he makes his way to his apartment. He lovingly calls it a shithole. That’s being generous. He has a studio flat, with one closed-off bathroom, a dirty mattress on the floor with a single sheet covering, a leaky roof that’s created a spot of mold above his kitchen space, and peeling paint on the drywall. He honestly cannot be bothered to fix any of this, nor does he intend on ever submitted a maintenance request to the building manager. It’s not worth it, for them to go through all the trouble for him. Especially not for him.

Grantaire has other classes today. He doesn’t give a shit and he has no intention of going to them. Frankly, if he’s being encouraged to quit by the one professor who actually manages to tolerate him, after 6 years of hell while trying to make it failing at every step, should he ever go back?

  
He’s drowning and he can’t swim to shore. He is out of control, and as he sits on the edge of his mattress, amber bottle in his hand, he can’t do it any longer. He tosses the bottle across the room. When it shatters, he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter any more.   
  
Or, it won’t soon matter.   
  
Grantaire props his arms on his knees and rests his forehead on his fists. The art student is torn between wanting to fill the hole in his chest he’s fought for years to get rid of, and not feeling anything for the remainder of his pathetic life.   


The words his brain speak at him, relentlessly, each time he is in this state, return with a fervor that is unmatched by anything he’s faced since starting that useless medication.

 

_Failure._

_You are a complete and utter failure._

_You aren’t worth the air you breathe._

_Your friends don’t deserve to have their time wasted by your presence._

_You have no control and you’re losing._  
  
Losing.   
  
Failure.

_If you haven’t learned by now that you’ll never amount to anything, when will you?_  
  
You won’t ever learn. You’ll just keep failing.   


_Failure._  
  
Failure, failure, failure.   
  
FAILURE.   


 

 

 

__  
(failure)  
  
Grantaire can’t stand it any longer. There’s one thing in which he can’t fail. He can’t lose if he makes his own choice, here. He has a choice between drowning as the waters creep past his chest and lick at his chin, or to leave the water for good.   
  
Just this once, he thinks he can win.   
  
Grabbing a box from under the sink in his bathroom, Grantaire removes the objects on top, still stained from their activity the week prior. He thinks, half-heartedly, that it would be easier with newer ones, but he cannot face leaving now. He can’t put this off any longer.   
  
Drawing the blade up to his thin, pale skin at his wrist, he closes his eyes and grimaces before the sharp edge even touches. He knows what to expect. Pressing down harder than ever before, he slides it across and feels the sharp sting as the blade cuts into his skin. Almost immediately, warm blood rushes over the blade’s edge and down his arm in beads. He lets out a shaky breath and does the same to the opposite wrist.  Laying down a towel to sit on, as to not stain the floor for the next tenant, he sits down, closes his eyes, and waits to stop drowning.   
  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Joly and Combeferre, freshly released from the labors of medical school for the afternoon on a rare light day, walk towards Grantaire’s apartment. The shorter of the two holds a grungy, green hoodie.

“I’m surprised R left his hoodie at my place last night, but hey. At least it wasn’t something dangerous for Bossuet to deal with.” Joly cracks a wide grin, evidence of his pure affection he has for the unfortunate but jovial man he shared with Musichetta.   
  
Combeferre strides ahead, his mind on the lectures of the morning rather than the minor plights of his acquaintances. “Knowing Grantaire, he was probably tired. Fatigue really affects the memory, as we know well.” He reaches the entryway to Grantaire’s living space a few minutes before Joly, and hold the door open for him. “It’s good of you to return it, though. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without it.”  
  
Joly’s face grows somber, briefly, before he smiles again and thanks his friend for the assistance with the door. “It’s no big deal, ‘Ferre. I mean, he likes it. And we have time.”  
  
“Excuse you. _You_ have time!” Combeferre laughs as they make their way up to the fifth and top floor of the old building, pushing his glasses up on his nose as the April heat results in just enough sweat to make their perch upon the bridge of his nose a bit precarious. “I don’t have time. I have to a literary review over kidney stone formation, study for our virology exam, read for Professor le Blanc, and make sure Courf doesn’t set the kitchen on fire when he tries to make Enjolras tea.”   
  
“Courfeyrac tried to make tea?”  
  
“Yeah, Enjolras had a migraine the other day so I left him notes because, well, I obviously couldn’t be there all day. It didn’t end well.”  
  
They reach the top landing, and Joly steps ahead of Combeferre to turn the round bronze knob on the door. It refuses to budge.  
  
“Joly, don’t you have a key …  or maybe knock?”   
  
Joly’s face grows darker by the second. “No, ‘Ferre, you don’t understand. Have you been to his place before?”

“No, I haven’t. Just to the front of the building but never to his room.”  
  
“Combeferre, he never locks his door. Something’s wrong.”  
  
“What do you mean, something’s wrong? How can you tell?”  
  
The breath of the small medical student speeds up and he tries the door again, simultaneously slamming his body into the wood in hopes of loosening a jam. “Combeferre, he, uh …. you must know he has depression.”  
  
As Joly’s attempts continue, Combeferre begins to understand. “Yes, I knew that. It’s obvious on some days …” He furrows his brows. “Joly, has ever mentioned … “  


He receives an imperative “ _Yes._ Something’s wrong. We need to get this door down.”  
  
They both drop their bags and try for a few vital moments to break down the door; with luck, this door is loose in the frame and is shaken free. The two medical students rush in and see the bathroom light on but silence and darkness in the rest of the apartment.   
  
They run and see his still form on the floor, the off-white towel beneath him slowly soaking up the rivulets of blood flooding from the wounds on his wrists. Without saying a word, Joly retrieves hand towels from the kitchen and returns to Combeferre holding the wrists of Grantaire to staunch at least some of the bleeding. Joly hands him one of the towels and they both quickly wrap the wounds as best as they can. Joly then pulls out his cell phone and calls for an ambulance.   
  
“Shit, ‘Ferre.” His eyes are wet with tears, his voice rough with instant grief as he looks down at the limp form of his friend. “What the hell do we do?”  
  
“I don’t know. I really don’t know.”  
  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Grantaire feels pain. Nothing but pain. His wrists sting, his head throbs, the bright lights above him hurt his eyes. He has but a moment to think, _This is hell, then. Pain and suffering. Something I’ve always deserved and nothing more_ before coming to his senses and becomes aware of the beeping of the life support machines, the presence of IV needles in his hand, the nearly nauseating aroma of disinfectant that permeates the air.   
  
He lost.   
  
He fucking lost again.   
  
He propped himself up on the bed and sees Combeferre, leaning over a medical textbook with a highlighter in hand and a pencil behind his ear, taking notes furiously.   
  
He can only wonder one thing. “Why?”  
  
Combeferre’s head jerks up, surprised. “Grantaire! You’re up!”  
  
“I am. I shouldn’t be, but I am.  What the fuck, ‘Ferre?”  
  
He shuts the book and stands up, confused. “You … you can’t be upset. We saved your life.”  
  
“Yeah, you fucking did. When it was my fucking choice to die. You had no right.”  
  
“Grantaire, stop. You are speaking nonsense.”  
  
Grantaire groans and looks at the ceiling, refusing to meet his friend’s eyes. “No I’m not. I was drowning had nowhere to go and I got out. You just threw me in the damn water again.”  
  
“Grantaire …” He doesn’t know what to say. He pauses, thinks, as tears well up in his eyes but don’t fall. “You should have asked for help, Grantaire. We were there to pull you back to shore.”  
  
“No you weren’t. You guys are so far above me, you wouldn’t even miss me if I was gone. Stop patronizing me.”  
  
“No. That’s a lie. Please don’t think like that. We are not above you, nor would we fail to miss you. _Please._ What can we do for you?”  
  
The troubled man lays in his bed, turns over, and stares at the wall. “You don’t want to help me. You really, really don’t. I’m not worth the effort.”  
  
“Everyone is worth the effort. Isn’t that was Enjolras tells us, constantly? We are all equal, and we all deserve the same lives full of happiness and struggle and peace. You might not believe it, but we love you. And this breaks my heart. Let us help you.”  
  
Grantaire does not move, but mumbles, “Please leave.”  
  
So Combeferre does, as the tears finally begin to fall.

__  
  


  
   
  
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 


End file.
